Once with astonishment <br />I stole a butterfly <br /> <br />from the end <br />of summer. <br /> <br />I only meant <br />to borrow her <br /> <br />admire her <br />the miracle of her <br /> <br />smeared clumsily <br />across my child's hand <br /> <br />so that I could not <br />return her <br /> <br />to what little was left <br />of summer <br /> <br />leaving a jagged hole <br />in the time of the sky <br /> <br />where she should have <br />been <br /> <br />a box <br />empty of its matches <br /> <br />served as a makeshift <br />coffin <br /> <br />matches stuck in <br />fresh earth <br /> <br />like little red-headed <br />flowers <br /> <br />blazing all at once <br />her funeral pyre. <br /> <br />Often I steal <br />back to that moment <br /> <br />cut out of summer <br /> <br />the empty place she left <br />in me <br /> <br />seeing clearly <br />the butterfly shape <br /> <br />cut awkwardly <br />out of time <br /> <br />jagged at the edges <br /> <br />my mind seeing beyond <br />into the infinity of death <br /> <br />hoping her ghost <br />can forgive me.<br /><br />Dónall Dempsey<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/end-of-summer-for-scareltt/
